Tragedy
by The Silver Trumpet
Summary: How many years have passed? Too many for Maleficent's weak magic to sustain Diaval's heart any longer. Day two for Tumblr's Maleval week. Prompt: Tragedy, pain, death, fatal injury.


The life of a fairy was a long one. Too long, she thought. Long enough to drive someone insane. Long enough to take a thousand lives over. The blessing of a fairy was her magic. The curse of a fairy was her longevity. No one knew how long fairies lived, exactly. No one knew how they died. Some say they passed when the last of their magic had been depleted. Others hypothesized that they flew up into the night sky until they became stars. And some believed that fairies didn't die at all, but instead just moved deeper in the moors in the hope of living much more peaceful lives.

Maleficent couldn't remember how long it had been since she had gazed into dark blue eyes and soothed a snowy-haired Aurora into death. A hundred years maybe, maybe a thousand. She didn't count years any longer. She and Diaval lived by the seasons but didn't count them. He never faltered, never left her side, not even when she tried to fling herself from the highest cliff in the moors. He had caught her then, saved her, roughly seizing her by the arm and throwing her against the tree, and he kissed her harshly. It had burned like fire then. It still did.

That was the day she decided that she _couldn't_ leave him. It would be cruel. The life of a fairy was a long one, and their magic lived as long as they did, if not longer. Diaval was a product of her magic. She made him. It was her duty to stay by his side as he had remained by hers. And gradually, the pain of losing Aurora trickled from a vicious burning into an empty, dull ache that was only filled in the blackest hours of the morning when her servant's bare body ground against hers, and the only sounds were pants and gasps and cries of pleasure.

His head fell to her shoulder, and he gave a weak breath. His heart had weakened, deteriorated, over the centuries. Though his body looked no different, a single heart could only be sustained for so long, even if by magic. His lips were blue almost consistently. His skin was too pale to be healthy, nearly gray. He knew he was dying. Her magic wasn't as immortal as she liked to think. So he let his cheek rest on her shoulder and shakily inhaled and exhaled, willing himself to live if only a little longer—a few more hours, a few more days, a few more years, a few more decades. He wanted a thousand more years by her side.

Her gentle hands lowered him onto a clover bed, and she curled at his side, spreading her dark wings over him like a blanket. She ran her fingers through his hair and watched his chest rise and fall, watched those obsidian eyes as they fluttered closed only to open again, trying to focus on her. She felt him straining, reaching, trying to live, if only for her. Guilt ravaged her. She was so selfish. He was suffering, but she wouldn't let him die, because he was all she had left in the hateful world of humans who had begun to produce iron and attack them again. And he _wanted_ to live, wanted to stay close to her. She could feel his need to protect her even now. Forever loyal. Even if _forever_ was in the literal sense.

She kissed him. Tears trickled from her eyes and fell to his cheeks. "I love you," she whispered. One hand pressed to his chest, desperately trying to force healing magic into his weakened heart. She rested her crown against his. His breaths were getting lighter, coming less steadily. "I—I can't save you this time," she whimpered. Tears came faster. What kind of fairy was she if she couldn't even save the life of her mate, her one and only, the wings of her soul? "I'm sorry."

One cold, trembling hand touched her cheek. His thumb brushed away the tears. "I love you, Maleficent." She had never heard his voice so thin before. The other hand smoothed her prickled feathers. "Don't cry. I love you." She knew he hated seeing her cry; he once told her he would rather cut off his own fingers than wipe away her tears. But even as he died before her, she couldn't offer him the one thing he desired. A final weak breath shuddered from his lungs.

She gave a shrieking sob and buried her face in his chest. His cold hands were still about her, unseeing eyes still focused on her. With shaking fingers, she closed his lids. "I love you," she whispered to the wind. His smell clung to him. She wouldn't ever forget the smell of wood and blackberries. "I'll see you soon," she promised. She lifted him not with her magic, but with her arms, and flew to the highest cliff in the moors. How many centuries had passed since he saved her from this very place? She didn't know. Too many, not nearly enough.

In one scoop of her hand, the soil obediently moved to form a hole in the shape of a grave. She lowered him into the earth and pushed the dirt back on top of him. With another smooth motion, a second grave opened in the ground. She folded her wings behind her and lay down on her back.

The blessing of a fairy was her magic. The curse of a fairy was her longevity. But it wasn't a curse, not really. Not when the blessing could easily override it. She uttered some soft Latin. The thorn barrier sprung up from the ground once more, her final offering of protection toward the home she loved so. Then, her entire magical being sprawled out through the soil. All over, plants shot up, straight and healthy. Her heart gave a skip of protest, unable to function without the magic that had just blessed the land for eternity, until it conceded defeat and ceased its beat. The life of the moors' protector left her, and small smile was curled onto her ruby lips.

He greeted her in a sky of solid white, and he said nothing. He hugged her tightly. She could hear a solid, steady heartbeat within him. "You didn't have to do that," he finally told her.

She tilted his chin down to her, letting their lips reconnect. "I wanted to," she murmured against him. Their bodies crushed together again, never to be apart.


End file.
